Books: Jeanne Of The Marshes
E >>
E. Phillips Oppenheim >> Jeanne Of The Marshes
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 | 13 |
14 |
15 |
16 |
17
Jeanne hesitated.
"Yes!" she said. "I will obey you in that."
"Then go there and wait," the Princess said. "I must think what to
do."
CHAPTER IX
The Count de Brensault called in Berkeley Square at three o'clock
precisely that afternoon, but it was the Princess who received him,
and the Princess was alone.
"Well?" he asked, a little eagerly. "Mademoiselle Jeanne is more
reasonable, eh? You have good news?"
The Princess motioned him to a seat.
"I think," she said, "we had forgotten how young Jeanne really is.
The idea of getting married to any one seems to terrify her. After
all, why should we wonder at it? The school where she was brought up
was a very, very strict one, and this plunge into life has been a
little sudden."
"You think, then," De Brensault asked eagerly, "that it is not I
personally whom she objects to so much?"
"Certainly not," the Princess answered. "It is simply you as the man
whom it is proposed that she should marry that she dislikes. I have
been talking to her for a long time this afternoon. Frankly, I do
not know which would be best--to give up the idea of anything of the
sort for some time, or to--to--"
"To what?" De Brensault demanded, as the Princess hesitated.
"To take extreme measures," the Princess answered slowly. "Mind, I
would not consider such a thing for a moment, if I were not fully
convinced that Jeanne, when she is a little older, would be
perfectly satisfied with what we have done. On the other hand, one
hesitates naturally to worry the child."
"She will not see me?" De Brensault asked. "It is possible that I
might be able to persuade her."
"You would do more harm than good," the Princess answered decidedly.
"She is terrified just now at the idea. She is in her room shaking
like a schoolgirl who is going to be punished. Really, I don't know
why I should have been plagued with such a charge. There are so many
things I want to do, and I have to stay here to look after Jeanne,
because she is too foolish to be trusted with any one else. I want
to go to America, and a very dear friend of mine has invited me to
go with her and some delightful people on a yachting cruise around
the world."
"Then why not use those measures you spoke of?" De Brensault said
eagerly. "I shall make Jeanne a very good husband, I assure you. I
shall promise you that in a fortnight's time she will be only too
delighted with her lot."
The Princess looked at him thoughtfully.
"I wonder," she said, "whether I could trust you."
"Trust me, of course you could, dear Princess!" De Brensault
exclaimed eagerly. "I will be kind to her, I promise you. Be
sensible. She would feel this way with any one. You yourself have
said so. There can be no more suitable marriage for her than with
me. Let us call it arranged. Tell me what it is that you propose.
Perhaps I may be able to help."
"Jeanne is, of course, not of age," the Princess said thoughtfully,
"and she is entirely under my control. In England people are rather
foolish about these things, but abroad they understand the situation
better."
"Why not in Belgium?" De Brensault exclaimed. "We might go to a
little town I know of very near to my estates. Everything could be
arranged there very easily. I am quite well-known, and no questions
would be asked."
The Princess nodded thoughtfully.
"That might do," she admitted.
"Why not start at once?" De Brensault suggested. "There is nothing
to be gained by waiting. We might even leave to-morrow."
The Princess shook her head.
"You are too impetuous, my dear Count," she said.
"But what is there to wait for?" he demanded.
"I must see my lawyers first," she answered slowly, "and before I
leave London I must pay some bills."
The Count drew a cheque book from his pocket.
"I will keep my word," he said. "I will pay you on account the
amount we spoke of."
The Princess opened her escritoire briskly.
"There is a pen and ink there," she said, "and blotting paper.
Really your cheque will be a god-send to me. I seem to have had
nothing but expenses lately, and Jeanne's guardians are as mean as
they can be. They grumble even at allowing me five thousand a year."
De Brensault twirled his moustache as he seated himself at the
table.
"Five thousand a year," he muttered. "It is not a bad allowance for
a young girl who is not yet of age."
The Princess shrugged her shoulders.
"My dear Count," she said, "you do not know what our expenses are.
Jeanne is extravagant, so am I extravagant. It is all very well for
her, but for me it is another matter. I shall be a poor woman when I
have resigned my charge."
De Brensault handed the cheque across.
"You will not find me," he said, "ungrateful. And now, my dear lady,
let us talk about Jeanne. Do you think that you could persuade her
to leave London so suddenly?"
"I am going up-stairs now," the Princess said, "to have a little
talk with her. Dine with me here to-night quite quietly, and I will
tell you what fortune I have had."
De Brensault went away, on the whole fairly content with his visit.
The Princess endorsed his cheque, and with a sigh of relief enclosed
it in an envelope, rang for a maid and ordered her carriage. Then
she went up-stairs to Jeanne, whom she found busy writing at her
desk. She hesitated for a moment, and then went and stood with her
hand resting upon the girl's shoulder.
"Jeanne," she said, "I think that we have both been a little hasty."
Jeanne looked up in surprise. Her stepmother's tone was altered. It
was no longer cold and dictatorial. There was in it even a note of
appeal. Jeanne wondered to find herself so unmoved.
"I am sorry," she said, "if I have said anything unbecoming. You
see," she continued, after a moment's pause, "the subject which we
were talking about did not seem to me to leave much room for
discussion."
"There is no harm in discussing anything," the Princess said,
throwing herself into a wicker chair by the side of Jeanne's table.
"I am afraid that all that I said must have sounded very cruel and
abrupt. You see I have had this thing on my mind for so long. It has
been a trouble to me, Jeanne."
Jeanne raised her large eyes and looked steadily at her stepmother.
She felt almost ashamed of her coldness and lack of sympathy. The
Princess was certainly looking worn and worried.
"I am sorry," Jeanne said stiffly. "I cannot imagine how you could
have supported life for a day under such conditions."
Her stepmother sighed.
"That," she said, "is because you have had so little experience of
life, and you do not understand its practical necessities. Children
like you seem to think that the commonplace necessaries of life drop
into our laps as a matter of course, or that they are a sort of gift
from Heaven to the deserving. As a matter of fact," the Princess
continued, "nothing of the sort happens. Life is often a very cruel
and a very difficult thing. We are given tastes, and no means to
gratify them. How could I, for instance, face life as a lodging-
house keeper, or at best as a sort of companion to some ill-tempered
old harridan, who would probably only employ me to have some one to
bully? You yourself, Jeanne, are fond of luxuries."
It was a new reflection to Jeanne. She became suddenly thoughtful.
"I have noticed your tastes," the Princess continued. "You would be
miserable in anything but silk stockings, wouldn't you? And your
ideas of lingerie are quite in accord with the ideas of the modern
young woman of wealth. You fill your rooms with flowers. You buy
expensive books," she added, taking up for a moment a volume of De
Ronsard, bound in green vellum, with uncut edges. "Your tastes in
eating and drinking, too," she continued, "are a little on the
sybaritic side. Have you realized what it will mean to give all
these things up--to wear coarse clothes, to eat coarse food, to get
your books from a cheap library, and look at other people's
flowers?"
Jeanne frowned. The idea was certainly not pleasing.
"It will be bad for you," the Princess continued, "and it will be
very much worse for me, because I have been used to these things all
my life. You may think me very brutal at having tried to help you
toward the only means of escape for either of us, but I think, dear,
you scarcely realize the alternative. It is not only what you
condemn yourself to. Remember that you inflict the same punishment
on me."
"It is not I who do anything," Jeanne said. "It is you who have
brought this upon both of us. All this money that has been spent
upon luxuries, it was absurd. If I was not rich I did not need them.
I think that it was more than absurd. It was cruel."
The Princess produced a few inches of lace-bordered cambric. A
glance at Jeanne's face showed her that the child had developed a
new side to her character. There was something pitiless about the
straightened mouth, and the cold questioning eyes.
"Jeanne," the Princess said, "you are a fool. Some day you will
understand how great a one. I only trust that it may not be too
late. The Count de Brensault may not be everything that is to be
desired in a husband, but the world is full of more attractive
people who would be glad to become your slaves. You will live mostly
abroad, and let me assure you that marriage there is the road to
liberty. You have it in your power to save yourself and me from
poverty. Make a little sacrifice, Jeanne, if indeed it is a
sacrifice. Later on you will be glad of it. If you persist in this
unreasonable attitude, I really do not know what will become of us."
Jeanne turned her head, but she did not respond in the least to the
Princess' softened tone. There was a note of finality about her
words, too. She spoke as one who had weighed this matter and made up
her mind.
"If there was no other man in the world," she said, "or no other way
of avoiding starvation, I would not marry the Count de Brensault."
The Princess rose slowly to her feet.
"Very well," she said, "that ends the matter, of course. I hope you
will always remember that it is you who are responsible for anything
that may happen now. You had better," she continued, "leave off
writing letters which will certainly never be posted, and get your
clothes together. We shall go abroad at the latest to-morrow
afternoon."
"Abroad?" Jeanne repeated.
"Yes!" the Princess answered. "I suppose you have sense enough to
see that we cannot stay on here for you to make your interesting
confessions. I should probably have some of these tradespeople
trying to put me in prison."
"I will tell Saunders at once," Jeanne said. "I am quite ready to do
anything you think best."
The Princess laughed hardly.
"You will have to manage without Saunders," she answered. "Paupers
like us can't afford maids. I am going to discharge every one this
afternoon. Have your boxes packed, please, to-night. Your dinner
will be sent up to you."
The Princess left the room, and Jeanne heard the key turn in the
lock.
CHAPTER X
Jeanne's packing was after all a very small matter. She ignored the
cupboards full of gowns, nor did she open one of the drawers of her
wardrobe. She simply filled her dressing-case with a few necessaries
and hid it under the table. At eight o'clock one of the servants
brought her dinner on a tray. Jeanne saw with relief that it was one
of the younger parlour maids, and not the Princess' own maid.
"Mary," Jeanne said, taking a gold bracelet from her wrist and
holding it out to her, "I am going to give you this bracelet if you
will do just a very simple thing for me."
The girl looked at Jeanne and looked at the bracelet. She was too
amazed for speech.
"I want you," Jeanne said, "when you go out to leave the door
unlocked. That is all. It will not make any difference to you so far
as your position here is concerned, because your mistress is sending
you all away in a few days."
The girl looked at the bracelet and did not hesitate for a moment.
"I would do it for you without anything, Miss Jeanne," she said.
"The bracelet is too good for me."
Jeanne laughed, and pushed it across the table to her.
"Run along," she said. "If you want to do something else, open the
back door for me. I am coming downstairs."
The girl looked a little perplexed. The bracelet which she was
holding still engrossed most of her thoughts.
"You are not doing anything rash, Miss Jeanne, I hope?" she asked
timidly.
Jeanne shook her head.
"What I am doing is not rash at all," she said softly. "It is
necessary."
Five minutes later Jeanne walked unnoticed down the back stairs of
the house, and out into the street. She turned into Piccadilly and
entered a bus.
"Where to, miss?" the man asked, as he came for his fare.
"I do not know," Jeanne said. "I will tell you presently."
The man stared at her and passed on. Jeanne had spoken the truth.
She had no idea where she was going. Her one idea was to get away
from every one whom she knew, or who had known her, as the Princess'
ward and a great heiress. She sat in a corner of the bus, and she
watched the stream of people pass by. Even there she shrank from any
face or figure which seemed to her familiar. She almost forgot that
she, too, had been a victim of her stepmother's deception. She
remembered only that she had been the principal figure in it, and
that to the whole world she must seem an object for derision and
contempt. It was not her fault that she had played a false part in
life. But nevertheless she had played it, and it was not likely that
many would believe her innocent. The thought of appealing to the
Duke, or to Andrew de la Borne, for help, made her cheeks burn with
shame. In any ordinary trouble she would have gone to them. This,
however, was something too humiliating, too impossible. She felt
that it was a blow which she could ask no one to share.
The omnibus rolled on eastwards and reached Liverpool Street. A
sudden overwhelming impulse decided Jeanne as to her destination.
She remembered that peculiar sense of freedom, that first escape
from her cramped surroundings, which had come to her walking upon
the marshes of Salthouse. She would go there again, if it was only
for a day or two; find rooms somewhere in the village, and write to
Monsieur Laplanche from there. Visitors she knew were not uncommon
in the little seaside village, and she would easily be able to keep
out of the way of Cecil, if he were still there. The idea seemed to
her like an inspiration. She went up to the ticket-office and asked
for a ticket for Salthouse. The man stared at her.
"Never heard of the place, miss," he said. "It's not on our line."
"It is near Wells on the east coast," she said. "Now I think of it,
I remember one has to drive from Wells. Can I have a ticket to
there?"
He glanced at the clock.
"The train goes in ten minutes, miss," he said.
Jeanne travelled first, because she had never thought of travelling
any other way. She sat in the corner of an empty carriage, looking
steadily out of the window, and seeing nothing but the fragments of
her little life. Now that she was detached from it, she seemed to
realize how little real pleasure she had found in the life which the
Princess had insisted upon dragging her into. She remembered how
every man whom she had met addressed her with the same EMPRESSEMENT,
how their eyes seemed to have followed her about almost covetously,
how the girls had openly envied her, how the court of the men had
been so monotonous and so unreal. She drew a little breath, almost
of relief. When she was used to the idea she might even be glad that
this great fortune had taken to itself wings and flitted away. She
was no longer the heiress of untold wealth. She was simply a girl,
standing on the threshold of life, and looking forward to the
happiness which at that age seems almost a natural heritage.
The sense of freedom grew on her next morning, as she walked once
more upon the marshes, listened to the larks, now in full song, and
felt the touch of the salt wind upon her cheeks. She had found rooms
very easily, and no one had seemed to treat her coming as anything
but a matter of course. One old fisherman of whom she asked
questions, told her many queer stories about the Red Hall and its
occupants.
"As restless young men as them two as is there now," he admitted,
"Mr. Cecil and his friend, I never did see. Fust one of them one day
goes to London, back he comes on the next day, and away goes the
other. Why they don't go both together the Lord only knows, but that
is so for a fact, miss, and you can take it from me. Every week of
God's year, one of them goes to London, and directly he comes back
the other goes."
"And Mr. Andrew de la Borne?" she asked. "Has he gone back there
yet?"
"He have not," the man answered, "but I doubt he'll be back again
one day 'fore long. Sure he need be. They're beginning to talk about
the shuttered windows at the Red Hall."
The girl turned and looked toward the house, bleak and desolate-
looking enough now that the few encircling trees were shorn of their
leaves.
"I shouldn't care to live there all the year round," she remarked.
"I've heerd others say the same thing," he answered, "and yet in
Salthouse village we're moderate well satisfied with life. It's them
as have too much," he continued, "who rush about trying to make
more. A simple life and a simple lot is what's best in this world."
"Things were livelier up there," Jeanne remarked, seating herself on
the edge of his boat, "when the smugglers used to bring in their
goods."
The old man smiled.
"Why that's so, lady," he admitted. "Lord! When I was a boy I mind
some great doings. One night there was a great fight. I mind it now.
Fifteen of the King's men were lying hidden close to the cove there,
and it looked for all the world as though the boats which were being
rowed ashore must fall right into their hands. They were watching
from the Hall, though, and the Squire's new alarm was set going. It
were a cry like a siren, rising and falling like. The boats heerd it
and turned back, but three of the Squire's men were set on, and a
rare fight there was that night. There was broken heads to be
mended, and no mistake. Mat Knowles here, the father of him who
keeps the public now, he right forgot to shut his inn, and there it
was open two hours past the lawful time, and all were drinking as
though it were a great day of rejoicing, instead of being one of
sorrow for the De la Bornes. I mind you were here a few weeks ago,
miss. You know the two Mr. De la Bornes?"
"Yes!" Jeanne admitted. "I know them slightly."
"Mr. Andrew, he be one of the best," the man declared, "but Mr.
Cecil we none of us can understand, him nor his friends. What he is
doing up there now with this man what's staying with him, there's
none can tell. Maybe they gamble at cards, maybe they just sit and
look at one another, but 'tis a strange sort of life anyhow."
"I think it is a very interesting place to live in," Jeanne said.
"What became of the siren which warned the smugglers?"
"There's no one here as can tell that, miss," the man answered,
"There are them as have fancied on windy nights as they've heerd it,
but fancy it have been, in my opinion. Five and twenty years have
gone since I've heerd it mysen, and there's few 'as better ears."
"Mr. Andrew de la Borne is not here now, is he?" she asked.
The fisherman shook his head.
"Mr. Andrew," he said, "is mortal afraid of strangers and such like,
and there's photographers and newspaper men round in these parts
just now, by reason of the disappearance of this young lord that you
heerd tell on. Some say he was drowned, and I have heerd folk
whisper about a duel with the gentleman as is with Mr. Cecil now.
Anyway, it was here that he disappeared from, and though I've not
seen it in print, I've heerd as his brother is offering a reward of
a thousand pounds to any as might find him. It's a power of money
that, miss."
"It is a great deal of money," Jeanne admitted. "I wonder if Lord
Ronald was worth it."
CHAPTER XI
The two men sat opposite to one another separated only by the small
round table upon which the dessert which had followed their dinner
was still standing. Even Forrest's imperturbable face showed signs
of the anxiety through which he had passed. The change in Cecil,
however, was far more noticeable. There were lines under his eyes
and a flush upon his cheeks, as though he had been drinking heavily.
The details of his toilette, usually so immaculate, were uncared
for. He was carelessly dressed, and his hair no longer shone with
frequent brushings. He looked like a person passing through the
rapid stages of deterioration.
"Forrest," he said, "I cannot stand it any longer. This place is
sending me mad. I think that the best thing we can do is to chuck
it."
"Do you?" Forrest answered drily. "That may be all very well for
you, a countryman, with enough to live on, and the whole world
before you. As for me, I couldn't face it. I have passed middle age,
and my life runs in certain grooves. It must run in them now until
the end. I cannot break away. I would not if I could. Existence
would simply be intolerable for me if that young fool were ever
allowed to tell his story."
"We cannot keep him for ever," Cecil answered gloomily. "We cannot
play the jailer here all our lives. Besides, there is always the
danger of being found out. There are two detectives in the place
already, and I am fairly certain that if they have been in the house
while we have been out--"
"There is nothing for them to discover here," Forrest answered. "I
should keep the doors open. Let them search if they want to."
"That is all very well," Cecil answered, "but if these fellows hang
about the place, sooner or later they will hear some of the stories
these villagers are only too anxious to tell."
Forrest nodded.
"There," he said, "I am not disinclined to agree with you. Hasn't it
ever struck you, De la Borne," he continued, after a moment's slight
hesitation, "that there is only one logical way out of this?"
"No!" Cecil answered eagerly. "What way? What do you mean?"
Forrest filled his glass to the brim with wine before he answered.
Then he passed the decanter back to Cecil.
"We are not children, you and I," he said. "Why should we let a boy
like Engleton play with us? Why do we not let him have the issue
before him in black and white? We say to him now--'Sign this paper,
pledge your word of honour, and you may go.' He declines. He
declines because the alternative of staying where he is is
endurable. I propose that we substitute another alternative. Drink
your wine, De la Borne. This is a chill house of yours, and one
loses courage here. Drink your wine, and think of what I have said."
Cecil set down his glass empty.
"Well," he said, "what other alternative do you propose?"
"Can't you see?" Forrest answered. "We cannot keep Engleton shut up
for ever. I grant you that that is impossible. But if he declines to
behave like a reasonable person, we can threaten him with an
alternative which I do not think he would have the courage to face."
"You mean?" Cecil gasped.
"I mean," Forrest answered, "what your grandfather would have told
him, or your great grandfather, in half a dozen words weeks ago. At
full tide there is sea enough to drown a dozen such as he within a
few yards of where he lies. Why should we keep him carefully and
safe, knowing that the moment he steps back into life you and I are
doomed men?"
Cecil drew a little breath and lifted his hand to his forehead. He
was surprised to find it wet. All the time he was gazing at Forrest
with fascinated eyes.
"Look here," he said, in a hoarse whisper, "we mustn't talk like
this. Engleton will turn round in a day or two. People would think,
if they heard us, that we were planning a murder."
"In a woman's decalogue," Forrest said, "there is no sin save the
sin of being found out. Why not in ours? No one ever had such a
chance of getting rid of a dangerous enemy. The whole thing is in
our hands. We could never be found out, never even questioned. If,
by one chance in a thousand, his body is ever recovered, what more
natural? Men have been drowned before on the marshes here many a
time."
"Go on!" Cecil said. "You have thought this out. Tell me exactly
what you propose."
"I propose," Forrest answered, "that we narrow the issues, and that
we put them before him in plain English, now--to-night--while the
courage is still with us. It must be silence or death. I tell you
frankly how it is with me. I would as soon press a pistol to my
forehead and pull the trigger as have this boy go back into the
world and tell his story. For you, too, it would be ruin."
Cecil sank back into his chair, and looked with wide-open but
unseeing eyes across the table, through the wall beyond. He saw his
future damned by that one unpardonable accusation. He saw himself
sent out into the world penniless, an outcast from all the things in
life which made existence tolerable. He knew very well that Andrew
would never forgive. There was no mercy to be hoped for from him.
There was nothing to be looked for anywhere save disaster, absolute
and entire. He looked across at Forrest, and something in his
companion's face sent a cold shiver through his veins.
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 | 13 |
14 |
15 |
16 |
17